


The storm I've been needing

by noelia_g



Category: White Collar
Genre: Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-06
Updated: 2010-02-06
Packaged: 2017-10-07 01:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/60051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noelia_g/pseuds/noelia_g





	The storm I've been needing

Peter never expected Neal to stay. Deal was a deal, Neal served his time and helped them with countless investigations and now he was a free man. Meant he was free to do as he pleased and go where he wished.

Neal wished to go to Vegas, it seemed. That's where the first postcard came from. Familiar handwriting, signed with an 'xoxo', it made Peter smile for a brief moment and then he locked it in his desk's drawer and never looked at it again. They kept on coming; from all over Europe, from Hong Kong, from Sidney, from Tokyo…

After a year and seventeen postcards Elizabeth broke into his desk's drawer, picked the lock and took out the cards, displaying them on the fireplace mantle. Peter didn't ask who taught her how to pick locks and she didn't look at him pointedly and didn't say what they've been both thinking: he was missing Neal.

Peter idly reads the police reports from all the places Neal visits, cross-references the art thefts and the forgeries and the reported scams. It's a bit like doing crossword every Sunday, except he doesn't hold his breath when he does his crossword.

He comes up with nothing, every time. Either Neal got much better at going undetected, or he has actually gone legit as he's been threatening to do for the last year he spent at FBI.

Peter feels oddly disappointed, even though that's exactly what he wanted for Neal: a good life, a chance at happiness.

"My husband's an idiot," El says fondly and refuses to explain.

Then there's the case of the forged Franklin's letters. The owner says he has his own expert coming and later Peter will think there should have been some sense of foreboding, something to prepare him for Neal Caffrey standing in the vault's doorway, his suit so sharp you could cut yourself.

"FBI's bringing the big guns on this one," Neal says, smiling widely, and Peter can't remember if this is what his real smile looks like, or is it one from his vast repertoire of fake ones. It's hard to tell and he's out of practice. "Peter," Neal nods and then turns to his client. "You're in excellent hands, agent Burke is one of the best."

"One of?" Peter says, mock-offended, but the joke falls flat.

Neal walks them out, stops to chat with Melissa, the rookie who replaced Cruz when she moved to head her own team. He smiles and flirts, pulls a small flower from behind her ear and offers it to her. And it's not that Peter isn't amused by the antics, really, he just had a long day and is getting impatient.

"Caffrey, walk with me," he says and it comes out harsher than intended. Something flashes across Neal's face and shit, Peter really is out of practice because he can't tell if it's annoyance or hurt or something else entirely.

"I was actually going to call," Neal offers, playing up the theatrics, fake flustered as his eyes dart to the side. "Or, you know, send you a postcard."

"Nice touch," Peter nods and smiles wryly. "When were you gonna do that, when you skipped town?"

Neal stops in his tracks and Peter catches up seconds later, turning to face him, to meet Neal's searching stare. This one Peter remembers; it's when Neal tries to figure something out, solve a puzzle. He had it directed at him before, but it was marred with suspicion and distrust. This time Neal's gaze is clear and open, simply curious.

"So," Neal drawls, blinking. "How's Elizabeth?"

It's not the conversation segue Peter expected but then again it's Neal Caffrey, defying expectations is what he does. "Fine. She's fine," he says and sighs, running his hand through his hair. "Neal," he starts and stops again. "How about a drink? I know I could certainly use one," he adds laughingly and Neal slowly nods.

"Why not?" he mutters.

They end up in an Irish pub, because Peter makes a mistake of letting Neal choose and Neal loves the classics. And the clichés, and at some point every classic becomes a cliché.

"So, I apparently lived to see the day when the great Neal Caffrey gave up the life of crime," Peter said after he downed half of the admittedly decent beer.

"Apparently that whole good side of the force shtick is a tough habit to break," Neal says lightly, shrugging a perfect shrug of not giving a shit, but reading him seems to be very much like riding a bike; you don't really forget it, you just need a little bit of a practice to remind yourself.

"Jones will be disappointed; he bet fifty bucks you'd go back to your wicked ways after six months," he shrugs. "His words, not mine," he adds at the same moment when Neal asks "Wicked ways?"

Neal laughs and it sounds almost right. "He bet against Cruz? Never bet against that woman," he says sagely, taking a swig out of his bottle.

Peter nods absently and takes a moment to study Neal. It takes skill, too, to see through the layers of smiles and bullshit, but he used to be good at that. "I think I missed you," he said absently, the confession coming out almost on its own, but he likes the sound of it, likes how it forms on his lips easily. It's a new thing, this full disclosure honesty, but he'll take it out for a spin.

Neal's face changes when he's really surprised, his eyes widen in a way he never quite learned to fake. Peter thinks he likes it. "You think?" he asks, voice rough and uncontrolled and Peter nods.

"I don't know for sure. You haven't been here long enough to annoy me."

Neal shakes his head. "I've been in town for weeks now," he says quietly.

It's not all that surprising, and yet it still hurts. A curious thing. "Working for Brady all that time or do you have other clients?" he asks politely, schooling his expression down, but apparently he's not quick enough, or Neal is still way too good at reading people. At reading him.

"Peter. I didn't think you'd want to see me. I'm just an ex-con you used to work with, someone to tell cautionary tales about to all your rookies," he says jokingly, but his eyes are serious as he watches Peter carefully. "Tell me I'm not," he adds, and it's not joking anymore even though it leaves Peter an open road to treat it as such, to step back and leave the subject once and for all.

"You're not," he says pointedly and tries for a small smile. "I mean, you do make a good story, Cruz had been using that material on every team building campfire shindig, but…" He doesn't say: I did miss you. Doesn't say: you should have called. Doesn't say: don't ever leave again.

Somehow, he thinks Neal gets all of it anyway.

"Should have gone for that drink to my place," Neal says quietly.

"You have better booze?"

"Of course. But also, there's this one thing I really want to do right now, and I don't think it would fly over well so very publicly," he says, stretching his hand, palm flat on the table as his fingertips touch Peter's, the single touch sending an electric current through his whole body, managing to set his nerves on fire.

Peter thinks he wanted this for years, but only now he's finding out how much, only now he knows what it is he's been craving. It's a bit like waking up, except it's nothing like that at all.

"How far away is your place?" he asks, hoarse and almost feverish and Neal does a doubletake, licking his lips and fuck, that's new and somehow fantastic.

"Not far," Neal shrugs. "And yet, too far," he adds, shaking his head, laughing as he stands up. He seems confused and giddy and turned on at the same time and Peter can't help but think that yes, he put that look on Neal's face.

They stumble into Neal's place, not touching yet, as if they were both aware that one step and it was a path of no return, a trainwreck of epic proportions if it was to end badly, and chances were it might.

The apartment is upscale and classy, just as Peter thought it would be, and he feels out of place, as always when he stumbles into Neal Caffrey's world. There's a view, of course there is a view, and it's glamorous and beautiful and all the things that Neal is.

Neal is also, apparently, nervous out of his mind, as he fumbles over offers of getting Peter a drink. Peter looks up, looks into Neal's face, worried and open and so incredibly familiar and he just laughs, shaking his head as he tries to keep it down.

"I can't believe it took me three years to catch you," he says finally at Neal's questioning look, and the corners of Neal's mouth turn up as he tries to contain a smirk.

"Well, to be fair, you seem to be just as pathetic," he points out and steps forward, and damnit, his hands are sneaky and apparently his fingers are apt at something else than picking locks and Peter finds himself with his tie undone and on the floor before he can blink. "Wanted to do that for ages. Your ties are terrible, Peter."

He doesn't bother with an answer, just shuts Neal up in a way that meets with a sound acceptance, his tongue sliding across Neal's lips, tasting the smile in the corner. He pushes Neal against the balcony's glass doors, against the million dollar view, and he closes his eyes.

After all, he's not here for the view.


End file.
